


Twist, Lick, ...Dick?

by simplifyingforces (vigorousplasmids)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Kiss, Food Kink, M/M, and also a little corny, this is silly and self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6755086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigorousplasmids/pseuds/simplifyingforces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Grif resist the ultimate temptation of watching Simmons eat Oreos for the first time? (No.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist, Lick, ...Dick?

Grif is a man of simple pleasures. In fact, the Grif happiness pyramid™ \-- created and ratified in Honolulu, Hawaii at the age of ten with one Kaikaina Grif, age six -- consists of only three layers: a solid base of sleep, covered by a central layer of consistent food supply, and topped off with access to decent TV. Thanks to his cot and Simmons’ borderline neurotic pop culture collecting habits, the outer two sections have been consistently covered ever since he ended up in Blood Gulch.

The center (a hopefully gooey, fried center) is a bit harder to come by. MREs are an actual affront to the word food. Any possible natural vegetation in this hellhole is also a solid no, because vegetation’s root word is veggie and that makes it awful by default. Under these conditions, Grif has to resort to drastic measures. He actually has to  _ration_ the few good things he comes across. Fortunately for him, the best food in the galaxy is both reasonably accessible and savable.

Every day he’s stuck in this hot, godforsaken canyon, he thanks UNSC transport for carrying Oreos, America’s greatest gift to mankind.

They’re not easy to keep in steady supply, but he’s an islander. He knows all about being stuck in remote places with ridiculously high markups on luxury items. He’s prepared his entire life for this very scenario.

Grif’s Oreo-saving strategy consists of three simple rules:

Rule #1: All Oreos sent to Red Base are Grif’s Oreos. Granted, no one else has ever seemed all that interested in them, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a process. Grif has made friendly with so many (too many) UNSC pilots to ensure those Oreos are his and his alone.

Rule #2: There are three secret locations dedicated solely to Oreo stockpiling:

  * Location 1 - Stuffed deep inside a large bag of rice in the kitchen pantry,
  * Location 2 - In the back of his underwear drawer, and
  * Location 3 - Under his cot behind the cardboard box marked “Grif’s Porn - Do Not Touch!!”



Rule #3: He does not fuck around with his Oreos. Oreos are not to be shared, bartered, or used as bribes. The only person ever in possession of an Oreo on Red Base is Dexter Grif --

\-- until today.

It seems today is the day someone finally decided to fuck with his Oreo stash.

That someone is his _former_  sort-of-friend, Dick Simmons, currently about fifteen paces away in the shared kitchen. The betrayal feels like a hot knife sliding through his gut.

Simmons is sitting at the table, casual as Simmons gets, with an entire stack of chocolate creamy goodness. He’s got a whole little setup, too: a fucking ceramic plate organized with a precisely centered tower of three-- _three!_ \--premium quality Double Stuf Oreos. It’s like Simmons knows about Grif’s affinity for simple three-step living and decided to shit all over it with his perfect Oreo stack. 

(Simmons does, in fact, know about his affinity for simple three-step living, because he’d argued very vigorously against the value of the Grif happiness pyramid™ only a month ago.

_Where are the people?_ Simmons had asked as he’d stared at Grif’s crude recreation of it. He’d sounded aghast, which aptly describes Simmons’ tone about sixty percent of the time.

When Grif had responded,  _What people?_ Simmons’ face had gone slack. He'd probably thought he was being very unreadable, but his reaction was painfully obvious to anyone that knew Simmons in the slightest. Simmons, generally speaking, sucked at being unreadable. 

So maybe Grif had had to say that pyramid lines were there for a reason. The Grif happiness pyramid™ suddenly had to become way more complicated because each line was now representative of some overarching structure in his life just to make Simmons not look so goddamn sad.

But Simmons’ eyebrows had risen in this surprised, pleased little arc when he’d said it. It had been something of a moment until Grif realized that he hadn’t even asked who the lines represented. He’d just assumed, which -- Grif isn’t gonna say he’s wrong, but it annoys him. He takes a certain level of pride in his aloofness, and Simmons is ruining it.)

The only possible way Simmons could have Double Stuf Oreos is if he-- shit. Grif only keeps Double Stufs in Secret Stash Location 3, for obvious reasons. It would be a good idea to go check if Simmons has been through his box of porn. There are things in there that Simmons doesn’t need to know about and probably shouldn’t touch.

But he really wants his goddamn Oreos back.

Simmons is completely oblivious to his dilemma. He’s got one hand on the top Oreo in the stack and the other propping up one of those moldy old training manuals they’d found back when Red Team first landed in Blood Gulch.

The manuals are the most boring thing in the sea of boringness that is this base. Simmons has read all five of them front-to-back at  _least_ twice, and those puppies are  _long_.

He must still be really engrossed, though, because he’s taking f o r e v e r to twist the Oreo open. He’s balancing the manual on his forearms to use both hands instead of putting it down and focusing on the good stuff.

This abomination has to end. Now.

Grif’s two steps from the kitchen entryway when Simmons finally gets the top wafer off. He nibbles on it, front teeth working it like a rabbit with a carrot. Little crumbs are getting stuck in the corner of Simmons’ mouth and all over his fingertips, all because he doesn’t know how to eat an Oreo properly. It’s making Grif’s eye twitch.

Here’s the thing -- Grif has never, not once, seen the value of twisting open an Oreo. The Oreo is designed to be eaten in one bite, no matter what Nabisco’s advertising department claims. Sure, efficiency is part of it, but come on -- the ratio of chocolate wafer to vanilla creme, the contrasting textures of crunchy and smooth, the way it all perfectly melts in your mouth? There is absolutely no reason to twist open an Oreo other than for the novelty of doing it.

He may have to reassess his opinion, though, once he sees Simmons get to the Oreo’s center.

Simmons’ tongue is committing the filthiest acts to the creme filling. Grif is positive that he has no idea how it looks because it is  _obscene_ , and Simmons has never wanted to be associated with anything beyond mildly endearing. Meanwhile, his eyes are flicking back and forth over the manual pages, like making love to a cookie is normal eating procedure. This is coming from a guy who regularly rides Grif’s ass for using “improper” silverware. (A fork, by the way, works perfectly fine for cereal. Especially when there are no clean spoons.)

His mouth falls open when Simmons holds the bottom half of the Oreo right up to his lips and flattens his tongue against it. He swipes up, and Grif spots a peek of white before Simmons pulls his tongue back into his mouth. When he swallows, his eyelids close for the briefest moment in satisfaction.

Grif can feel goosebumps forming on his skin as he watches. He should stop being creepy and either announce himself or fuck off. He doesn’t want to fuck off, though. He  _also_ doesn’t want Simmons to stop sexing up his Oreos, and Simmons totally will if he knows someone else is watching. Simmons cannot -- and should not -- be brought out of the Oreo-eating zone at this point.

So he stays. Simmons does not disappoint.

He abandons flat licking for a poke-and-swirl method. The tip of his tongue dives into the creme (which is now all wet and sticky and making Grif think...things) and digs it out in a rough circular pattern. Simmons just circles and circles until there’s a good amount gathered, and then he swallows.

Grif chokes on his own spit when he sees the creme disappear into Simmons’ mouth. His cheeks are burning, and it’s one hundred percent shame -- total, fascinated, secret shame. Who would have ever guessed Simmons had such a long and skillful tongue?

He’s almost disappointed when he realizes that the creme’s gone. Simmons seems to notice the same problem when he licks again and gets nothing. Still completely absorbed in the manual, he slowly pushes the remaining wafer between his lips.

“Man, am I glad I gave Simmons those cookies!” a whispered voice says right in his ear.

Grif jumps about a foot in the air. “Donut?!” He drags his fellow voyeur back behind the doorway and out of Simmons’ sight.

“He really knows how to get every little bit of that delicious white stuff into his mouth, huh? Great technique. I’ve gotta try it sometime.”

“Ugh,” Grif says. “Wait -- _you_ got Simmons those Oreos?” Secret Stash Location 3 flashes briefly in his mind. If Donut actually dove through a sea of naked women to get his Double Stufs, he might be impressed enough to let it slide.

“Don’t worry, they aren’t yours. I’ve got my ways,” Donut responds with an eyebrow waggle. Grif isn’t even going to try to interpret what that means.

At the sound of a slurp from the kitchen, they turn back to Simmons, who’s now going to town on the second Oreo. It’s a lot more uncomfortable to watch this with Donut next to him. The guy is breathing all labored and excited right into his ear.

“Donut,” he says after a minute. He keeps his eyes on Simmons and winces when he swallows another gob of creme. “Why did you give Oreos to  _Simmons_?”

“Can’t a guy give another guy a special, private gift every now and then? I mean, I didn’t think it would feel this good to watch him enjoy it, but wow!”

“But--but  _I'm_ the Oreo guy!” Grif exclaims as loudly as he can without alerting Simmons to their conversation.

“Yeeeees,” Donut says patiently, “and now  _Simmons_ tastes like  _Oreos_.”

Grif freezes. He never thought he’d be whispering to Donut in a secluded spot with a hard-on, but here he is all the same.

Beyond the doorway, he can see Simmons’ long, twisty tongue covered in Oreo creme. His lips are dusted with chocolate crumbs. Simmons and Oreos. His brain is short-circuiting the more he thinks about it. 

A small, hungry sound pushes up out of his throat before he can stop himself. Goddamnit.

Donut is surprisingly self-contained when he pats him on the back. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. And, y’know, since you’re just peeping back here...if you don’t mind a little company...”

“Donut, I swear to god--” Grif has probably fulfilled at least four of Donut’s fantasies already, and he’s not looking to entertain any more.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get out of your hair!” Grif can hear him skip all the way back down the hallway. Now that he’s alone again, he's overly aware of all that his reaction entails. He will not jerk off in the kitchen doorway. No matter how much he wants to.

While Grif works on keeping his boner in check, Simmons starts on the last Oreo. This time he decides to keep the sandwich intact and run his tongue in and out of the middle seam. It doesn’t even make sense from a practical standpoint. Grif watches him anyway.

He should have known that keeping his boner in check is not going to happen. Staring at Simmons too long out of armor is not something Grif does, and for good reason. He’d figured that out fairly early on when Simmons had pulled off his helmet during a training exercise. It had been exceptionally hot that day, and Simmons’ power armor coolant had malfunctioned instead of his own for once. Sarge had cursed up a storm about it --  _Don't you know you're outside, Simmons? The Blues'll have a field day with target practice on your head!_ \-- and Grif had looked up to say something snarky that was forever lost to the ether, because everything flew out of his brain when he saw Simmons.

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with Simmons’ face (they did share a base, after all) but holy hell was this different. The lighting, for one -- Simmons’ hair absolutely  _shined_ in the sunlight. The top was all smushed down from the helmet, but it didn’t really take away from the overall effect. Below his ridiculous gleaming hair, his skin had flushed a deep red entirely different from his usual mild embarrassed blush. It made his eyes unbelievably bright in contrast. They were also a little glassy, which was a possible sign of heatstroke, but it was still oddly captivating.

It was Simmons  _undone_ , which was never really a thing Simmons was, physically speaking. 

At that point, all it took was Simmons letting out a breathless,  _Sorry, sir_ , and licking his dry lips for Grif’s dick to come to attention. Simmons’ voice had a husky mode, and all it had needed was a little dehydration to draw it out. Grif had turned away after that, because sexy Simmons was making him question too much of the last two years of his life. 

After that, every time he saw Simmons without a helmet, he couldn’t help but think of that day. So he avoided it with every fiber of his being, because he and Simmons had a good thing going, and there were so few good things that got to stay in his life.

Today is apparently the day of reckoning, though. Fuck Donut and fuck repression. When Simmons finally gives up and pops the whole thing in his mouth, Grif decides it’s time to step in. Enough is enough.

He stomps into the kitchen so loudly that Simmons finally glances up from the manual. “Grif!” he yelps around a mouthful of cookie. He looks entirely too guilty.

“You know,” Grif says, and it’s stupid, so stupid, but he’s too turned on at this point to care, “I’m an Oreo man.” There, he said it. He can die happy now that he’s worked Oreos into a sexual proposition.

Simmons swallows and drops the manual on the table. “A what?”

There’s no time to reevaluate his poor life choices. Grif straddles the other seat at the table and scoots right up next to Simmons. “Some guys are ass men, or boob men, or dick men, but me? I’m a  _slut_ for Oreos.” He flicks his eyes down at Simmons’ lips for good measure.

“Oh. Okay?” Simmons is either the most oblivious or most polite person on the planet, and Grif knows from personal experience that Simmons is not polite. But he catches Simmons eyes flick downward in response and he’s already come this far. He’s not gonna stop now, when the potential payoff is so good.

He tips the chair forward onto two legs. “So you like Oreos, too?” he says, and it’s supposed to sound all cool and seductive and shit but he’s pretty sure it actually sounds totally desperate. He literally just watched Simmons eat three Double Stuf Oreos like they’re grade-A pussy.

Simmons considers him for a second. He’s only inches away from Grif’s face when he says, “Actually…I’d never had them before.”

Grif will be scandalized about that later. You know, when he’s not otherwise occupied.

“But after meeting you,” Simmons hesitates, and Grif actually can’t take another second of this, because Simmons’ breath smells like Oreos, which means  _Simmons_ smells like Oreos, and now his dick is pressing really painfully into the chair back. 

“I wanted a taste,” he finishes in a rush. He’s got this nervously expectant look on his face.

“Yeah, me too,” Grif breathes. “Wait...what?”

Simmons lets out a deep, relieved sigh. “Just kiss me already, dumbass,” he says, so Grif does.

It’s fucking glorious. Before he can even think about it, he’s running his tongue over every inch of the inside of Simmons’ mouth. He may or may not be moaning really embarrassingly.

“This is actually your kink,” Simmons says once they finally break apart. “I so called it.”

It’s just like Simmons to ruin the moment. But when Grif opens his eyes, he can see that lift in his brow, and he settles. He guesses he can admit that the new Grif happiness pyramid™ is alright, even if it is more complicated and the line representation thing makes no goddamn sense.

“Shut up, asshole,” he says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written for Red vs. Blue, and it is so ridiculous and stereotypical, I'm sorry. I love these two a hell of a lot though, so I just wanted to try my hand at something...and this is definitely something.
> 
> P.S. The title is a (not very good) play off of the Oreo slogan, "Twist, Lick, Dunk."


End file.
